


Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

by rissalf, SilentSinger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Sadism, Voyeurism, this is really unpleasant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: I would shiver the whole night through.





	Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crystaldust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystaldust/gifts).



> Fic is set post S03E22: Heavydirtysoul.

Edward Nygma had never doubted for a second that they’d end up here. This, after all, had been the plan all along. His single-minded preoccupation with reprisal had been so strong, that even if he’d not been foiled in his attempts to extinguish the Penguin prior to this moment, he’d have undoubtedly brought the man back to these very docks – by any means necessary.

Despite all of this, he cannot fully ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. Minute tendrils of worry, extending their icy fingers deep within his core. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

His last sojourn here had been one of acceptance, and penance. Admitting to Oswald, hallucination or no, that his feelings had extended far beyond the reciprocity of simple friendship had unveiled emotions within Ed that he’d only vaguely been aware of before. He didn’t just care for Oswald Cobblepot; he loved him.

As a result of these realisations worming their way to the forefront of his mind, he’d all but forgotten the impetus behind this protracted game of cat and mouse – namely, Isabella. His quest for retribution hadn’t been about her for quite some time; he’d barely spared her a thought in weeks. No, this was about Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma – the push and pull of two opposing forces who merely had to come to terms with the fact that together, their alliance would be omnipotent.

“Here we are. Again,” Edward begins. There’s a chill wind blowing across the turbulent waters below; its frigid caress is bitter against his rain-soaked skin, but that’s not what is truly causing Ed to shiver. “Wow. I have to tell you,” he continues through clenched teeth, “this feels really great.”

It doesn’t, of course, feel great at all. It feels like an ill-fated end to a means. Edward is here because he _has_ to be here; he _has_ to do this, whether or not he believes his motives to be correct. The concept was somewhat akin to waiting weeks for a reservation at an extremely high-class restaurant, telling yourself during that timeframe that you simply _must_ have the filet mignon – after all, Chef’s sauce is a one-of-a-kind recipe that hundreds have tried to replicate, and never succeeded – and deciding, as the waiter pours your first glass of wine while you peruse the menu, that you’d rather have the sea bass with celeriac purée, instead. It’s a notion that is quite simply beyond the realms of Edward’s thought process; it’s practically a nonentity. It cannot happen. You start, you finish, and that’s all there is to it.

Ed supposes now that he ought to ask Oswald whether he has any last words, but he cannot ignore the nagging seeds of doubt that have beset themselves upon him.

_You don’t want this._

These uncertainties flit through his mind like the buzzing of bothersome flies, and he grimaces as he grips the handle of the gun a little tighter.

_Only you can end it._

He wants to end it. Needs it. Not through bloodshed; not like this. There have been times when he’s wanted nothing more than the heated sensation of Oswald’s lips upon his own: a taste of the unquestionable fire that’s burned between them since the very first moment they met.

_Just give in._

Would it really be so wrong? If once, just once, Ed were to allow himself to concede defeat? The possibilities, he knows, are interminable; he and Oswald had cut quite the fine duo during their elective tenure, and now, with the Court of Owls exposed, they could do more than just rule Gotham. They could own it. Above all else, however, was the concept of Oswald Cobblepot – that ruthless, cunning, diabolically intelligent yet endearingly infantile man – belonging to Edward once and for all. That was what he coveted above all else; always had been.

He regards Oswald fully: his inky mop of hair is soaked with rain and is adhering to his forehead in delicate strands, his pale green eyes are bright and sincere – in fact his whole demeanour suggests to Ed that this time, he’s accepted his fate, whatever that fate may be.

_Let it go._

The revolver in Edward’s hand suddenly feels cold, much too cold, and Ed strengthens his resolve at last as he pitches it smoothly into the waters below. He’s defenceless now. There’s an aching tightness in his chest as he breathes in harsh mouthfuls of the frigid air, and his heartbeat seems much too loud.

There’s no turning back from here. Edward closes the gap between them and cups Oswald’s cool, wet face in his hands. This is the moment. This is what it’s all been about from the very start. Fuck everyone else – Barbara, Butch, Jim Gordon, even the Court of fucking Owls. None of it matters. Nothing matters anymore except what happens next. Oswald’s hands find their way to the small of Edward’s back and they share a moment simply regarding one another, foreheads pressed together, their breath combined in a fine silvery haze. Edward leans in and when their lips meet at last, it’s as if everything else in the world has ceased to be. Oswald moans into the kiss, a sound laced with such profound _need_ that it fills Ed with an emphatic longing, and he wants more. They have to get out of here. But there’s something amiss.

_This isn’t how it happened._

It’s a realisation that hits Edward like a slap to the face. The exquisite warmth of Oswald’s body pressed against his own is suddenly ripped away, like a chill gust of air blowing in through an open window – until he’s left with no heat at all; Oswald’s lips are ice cold.

_You didn’t think it was gonna be that easy, did you?_

****

_You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did._

As Oswald and the docks recede from view, the chill multiplies exponentially, and Edward is forced to face the cold, hard truth of reality once more.

Reality, in this instance, is three feet of impenetrable ice encasing every inch of his body. Edward is rendered utterly inert – a beetle trapped in amber. Silent. Still. Serene as a lonely cabin in the woods on a snowy winter morning.

On the outside, anyhow. The irony is that every nerve ending in his body feels as though it’s wreathed in flame, as if any moment now he’ll crumble to the floor like a log splitting over a campfire. He screams inside – a muted, agonising howl which no one hears. For all outward appearances, Edward Nygma is a perfectly placid trophy, the ultimate monument to the Penguin’s fiendish guile.

Eventually, numbness sets in. And while one might consider this a blessing, Ed finds that it is, somehow, infinitely worse. Edward’s awareness is acute, but he’s trapped – a solitary prisoner in the vexatious confines of his own mind. It’s cruel beyond measure, even from a man who butchered and ate his own wretched stepsiblings, but Ed has to hand it to Oswald – it’s truly a masterful prison.

The passage of time is marked only by the occasional visit from Oswald, and the buzz of work crews transforming the neglected interior of _Oswald’s_ into something far grander, with Edward’s ornate, temperature-controlled chamber the crown jewel at its heart. But if it’s weeks or months that have passed since that day at the docks, Ed doesn’t know.

Sometimes, Oswald speaks to him – though the thick walls of ice surrounding him make it impossible to discern a single syllable. His face, however, conveys every emotion flawlessly; expressiveness never was a challenge for Oswald. At times, he seems almost remorseful, his eyes welling with tears as he lays a hand on the glass enclosure. But mostly, Oswald rages.

Sometimes, there are visitors. Most of them are paraded through the room as if it were just another stop along some overpriced museum tour. They gawk and stare, exchange hushed remarks and raised eyebrows; some even snap photographs. And then they’re gone, and the cold, crushing void rushes in once more.

****

Edward comes to prize the few fleeting moments of activity that disrupt the monotony of his isolation. As the sumptuous azure lights flare to life in the ballroom, so too does Ed’s mind. Studying the passers-by, cataloguing names and faces, has become a hobby of sorts; though the logical part of his brain chides his foolishness, he clings to the feeble hope that observation will someday be his salvation.

The large doors opposite his enclosure swing open, and Oswald is… not alone. But he isn’t accompanied by the usual throng of curious onlookers either. One lone man follows him inside – dark-haired, bespectacled, slim; Ed doesn’t care for the way he leers down his nose at Oswald. The men regard one another for a moment, Oswald saying something unintelligible before casting a baleful glance at Edward. They share a laugh. They move closer. Much, much closer.

And then.

_No._

_No._

All niceties are abandoned as Oswald is swiftly bent over the nearest table, his pants and underwear forcibly yanked down around his ankles. The visitor holds him down, presses his face against the smooth surface of the tabletop, spits into his own palm.

There’s no buildup, no careful preparation; Oswald’s eyes widen as his companion spreads his cheeks and pushes inside, the entirety of his thick cock shoved in seemingly all at once. Nary a sound penetrates the chamber, but Edward can hear Oswald howl all the same.

_This is wrong,_ Ed thinks; he shouldn’t be seeing this. He doesn’t want to. But Edward can only watch on, a silent spectator to this perverted passion play.

As the man behind him works up a rhythm – the pace frantic and utterly graceless – Oswald bares his teeth and clutches the table, his watery eyes never once leaving Edward. He watches him curiously, as if expecting the ice to crack and Ed to burst forth and protest. There’s a moment – a fraction of a second – where Oswald’s expression clouds over, his lips trembling once before the weakness is pushed down and locked away. Oswald’s mouth drops open at a particularly forceful thrust, and then he grins, grins so wide it’s almost unnatural.

_Stop it. Stop it. Stop!_

It isn’t the idea of Oswald being used in such a manner that bothers Edward. In truth, he’d dreamt up far worse scenarios over the tenure of their relationship – on more than one occasion excusing himself in the middle of dinner to fully indulge such debauched reverie. The very worst of it is that someone else’s hands are all over Oswald. Someone else is making him cry out in pleasure. Someone else is buried in him deep, knowing Oswald in ways that Ed can only dream about. In ways he could have had him if only…

_Stop._

All at once, the man pulls out and manoeuvres Oswald off the table and onto his knees. He jerks himself messily – thrusting into one hand as the other grips Oswald by the hair – until he comes prodigiously, coating Oswald’s cheeks and nose in a sheen of his viscous release.

Edward wishes for the agony of physical pain to return instead. Prays to any deity who might possibly listen. Anything is better than watching Oswald debase himself to some nameless cretin who isn’t fit to lick shit from the soles of his shoes.

Ed tries to look without really seeing. Reduces them to their simplest forms: shapes, colours, movement. That’s all they are. Oswald produces a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes the sticky fluid from his face. They gather their clothes with barely a word exchanged, Oswald left hard and unsatisfied as he tucks his neglected cock back in his pants. But Edward isn’t seeing that. And he certainly isn’t imagining taking Oswald’s dick in his hands or working him until he comes – all fluttering eyelashes and flushed, dewy skin, a whisper of profanity on his lips. Shapes and colours, nothing more.

Blue fades to black, and seclusion returns. It should be a relief.

Instead, Oswald’s manic visage – his mouth contorted with spite and pain and ecstasy – haunts every moment of Edward’s restless dreams.

****

Sometimes, Oswald drinks alone. He casts a lonely figure as he sits, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his tumbler – brooding, contemplative. On occasion he’ll lift a glass to Edward – a mordant toast to days gone by. During these infrequent moments of reflection, Ed almost feels at peace. Edward and Oswald, alone, simply enjoying silence. It’s a private sense of intimacy: it belongs to them, and only them. But Ed knows Oswald well enough to understand that these brief encounters of serenity won’t last.

And they don’t.

This one is different. Granted, he fits the profile – tall, dark-haired, bespectacled – but his demeanour suggests timidity. With his head bowed he follows Oswald towards his grand centrepiece, and they face one another before Edward, giving the appearance of two men about to recite lines from a play – a performance Ed is undoubtedly unlikely to enjoy. After a brief exchange, the man promptly drops to his knees, and Oswald’s stature appears to shift – from that of a penguin to the cruel gaze and domineering plumage of a vulture protecting a fresh carcass.

It happens quickly after that. With one hand Oswald unzips his pants and gives himself a few sloppy strokes before nodding his head once at his companion, while with the other he retrieves from his breast pocket a gun. Edward’s gun.

_Please, no._

Without hesitation the obedient gentleman eagerly swallows Oswald’s length, completely unfazed by the six inches of steel now pressed against his temple; in fact, the man’s expression of unmitigated euphoria suggests that he’s not only comfortable with the situation, he _wants_ it. He hollows his cheeks and works Oswald with enthusiasm, thin strands of spittle oozing from the corner of his mouth.

Oswald’s countenance is one of sheer savage bliss: a lion whose den you’ve just unwittingly entered. He exposes his long, pale neck as he throws his head back, eyes squeezed tight, a wide grin of unhinged glee contorting his pointed features. He’s sure not to last long; his submissive suitor seems quite adept – the bulge in his own pants evident under the vivid glare of the cerulean lighting.

Though he cannot hear a thing, every moan, every groan, every suck and every slurp is magnified tenfold within Edward’s mind. He tries to lose focus once more – movement, colours, shapes, but it’s to no avail. It’s a waking nightmare – a malicious tableau, performed for an audience of one. Does he really deserve this? Does any being deserve such anguish? _Please, just stop. Please stop._

It’s as though Oswald hears his noiseless plea, but that’s not to say this particular heinous display is adjourned – quite the contrary, in fact. Oswald isn’t finished, in more ways than one. In one fluid gesture, he withdraws his cock and pulls the trigger, the resulting splashback coating Ed’s enclosure in a patina of brains, hair, blood and skull. The fellow’s body hits the floor, the smile upon what remains of his face – unmistakable.

****

A short time later, the remnants of Oswald’s unfortunate victim are removed, the gentleman no doubt given some wholly undignified final resting place. The blood and the viscera are diligently scrubbed clean, until no one would ever suspect what sort of gruesome scene played out here. For Edward, though, the palpable sense of dread lingers, and he suspects that it’s only a matter of time before Oswald decides to teach him another lesson.

How he wishes he’d been wrong.

Like the rest, Oswald’s latest paramour could, at a glance, be mistaken for Edward himself. This one seems to have even taken cues from Ed’s own wardrobe, though the verdant fabric of his expertly tailored suit is a trifle meretricious for Edward’s taste. Unlike the previous encounters, however, Oswald doesn’t make a point of showing off his arctic piece de resistance. In fact, as the men stumble into the room, entwined in an ardent embrace, Edward is spared no bother at all.

They careen across the floor, utterly enthralled with each other – hands clutching and pulling and groping, mouths meeting in a clash of lips and teeth and tongues, trousers and shoes strewn about like debris in the wake of a tornado. It’s a dizzying display, a battle in which neither has the upper hand for long. But it isn’t about winning. It’s about passion; it’s about the crescendo of desire, an ache in the soul that refuses to be ignored for a single second longer.

_This is what you could have had-_

There’s no discernible rhythm to this madcap waltz, yet as the pair draws closer – chairs and tables shoved aside in mindless abandon – it feels ominous, inevitable. Almost magnetic. Of course they would end up here, Oswald spun so that he’s pressed against the cool glass, hands splayed over the sleek surface of Edward’s confines. Of course.

But Oswald gives no indication that this was his intended destination; he doesn’t seem aware of much at all outside his companion’s touch. His eyes are squeezed tight and his mouth hangs open, the warmth of his breath fogging the glass with each enraptured exhalation.

_-if only you had given in._

Oswald braces himself as he adjusts to the acute intrusion of his companion’s cock, the man’s long, lithe fingers gripping him by the shoulder as he presses inside and begins to move. It’s rough and unrefined, every roll of the man’s hips driving Oswald against Ed’s chamber, but it feels like a meeting of equals. Both men want this, _need_ this.

They lose themselves in each other, in gratification – the fervour of the moment blinding them to everything else in the room. When the tall gentleman reaches around to take Oswald’s length in hand, pumping him furiously in time with his thrusts, Edward no longer has to imagine hungry groans or lascivious shouts. They permeate glass and ice – muffled, as if underwater – the euphoria indisputable. Building, building, as Oswald comes ever closer to his release. Ed has seen enough to know it won’t be long.

_No more. Please. Stop._

As always, his pleas go unheeded.

The delicate fog from Oswald’s rapid and ragged breath obscures his face, but when he comes it’s unmistakable – semen spraying the walls of Edward’s chamber in a thick, viscid stream. Of all the spectacles he’s been forced to observe, it’s this one – Oswald giving himself over to wanton, mindless lust with some second-rate pretender – that cuts Ed deepest. A world of “what-if” weighs upon him, taunts him with the unflinching persistence of a schoolyard bully.

_That could have been you. That was your chance at happiness, but you threw it away with both hands._

Evidently not one to bask in the afterglow, Oswald’s eyes flutter open, awareness of his surroundings dawning for the first time. As his gaze meets Edward’s, they share a look of mutual longing and regret – but it’s wholly ephemeral, interrupted by his partner sucking and nipping at the base of Oswald’s exposed neck as he works himself into his own heated climax.

And then they’re gone, scattered articles of clothing collected in haste – exiting the ballroom nearly as quickly as they blew in. Oswald seems almost sheepish, his demeanour that of a teenager sneaking in long past curfew.

But he doesn’t once look back.

****

Tonight is opening night. A band plays an unheard melody, their frontman singing silently while jubilant partygoers drink and dance beneath the fluctuating glow of the azure lights. They mill about the place – like bees in a hive, sharing gossip while meeting old faces and being introduced to new. Sooner or later they all come to Edward. Some are curious, some laugh. Some snap selfies before disappearing back into the heaving throng, completely unperturbed by the man in ice’s plight.

It’s unlikely that a single one of them notices the solitary, frozen tear resting upon Edward’s cheek.

But Oswald does.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise from the bottom of my cold, black heart for the Frozen reference. I make no such apologies for the Kill Bill one.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)
> 
> In the unlikely event that you enjoyed this horrific tale, please allow me to humbly direct you towards our other joint efforts: [Reason Is Treason](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8546119), [Lost Souls Forever](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9825767?view_full_work=true) and [The Bird and the Worm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6211234?view_full_work=true).


End file.
